Zeke turned toward his younger brother. “Who don’t?”
“Twisted Souls. Reached out to their prez. He pretty much blew me the fuck off.”
That wasn’t fucking good. If anything, it was sus. “You shittin’ me?”
“No, brother. Wish I could say I was. Makes me think they might be up to somethin’.”
“No fuckin’ shit. You give Rage a heads up?”
“Yeah. He’s gonna meet with Romeo ‘bout the situation.”
Zeke’s head jerked back. “My fuckin’ sergeant at arms is gonna meet with the Knights’ prez without me?”
“Sounds like it. Talk to Rage.”
Fuck that shit. “Last I checked”—he glanced down at this officer patch to make sure it was still there—“I’m still the fuckin’ president of this damn club. Rage should be talkin’ to me.”
So instead of having dinner with his kid and his woman—or the woman he hoped would soon be wearing his cut again—he was sitting in a dark corner at Dirty Dick’s, the bar the Dark Knights owned. Despite it also being open to the public, it doubled as their clubhouse since all the Knights hung out there and their officers met in the basement.
Wasn’t fancy, but it worked for them.
Their former sergeant at arms, Magnum, had claimed a table in the back corner and no one had ever dared sit at it but him. Romeo, the current prez of the all-Black MC, had taken ownership of that table after Magnum retired his officer’s patch.
The wood table was scarred, stained and had seen a lot of shit.
Zeke sat across from Romeo. Opposite Rage, sat Voodoo, the Knights’ latest sergeant at arms.
Voodoo was a big, scary motherfucker. Bigger than Romeo, but not much smaller than Magnum. The man was so damn tatted up, it was hard to tell where his black ink ended and his dark skin began.
But no matter what, just his appearance screamed “don’t fuck with me.”
Zeke side-eyed Rage. At six-foot-three, Hawk’s son was a shit-load bigger than Zeke, but not as bulky as Voodoo.
He was just glad the OGs from both the Angels and Knights had the foresight to become allies over thirty years ago. Along with the Blood Fury up north, the three clubs had become a powerhouse and were usually never fucked with.
But tonight, he wasn’t liking what he was hearing.
By the Kings of Anarchy MC chasing the Twisted Souls out of their former territory, now the “biker army of the west” would have to deal with them instead.
Fuck both those outlaw clubs.
Just because the Angels hadn’t worn those diamond-shaped 1% patches in the last forty or so years, that didn’t mean they’d be fucking pushovers.
Being a one-percenter was more of a state of mind than anything. And not advertising it on their cuts helped them maintain a better relationship within the Shadow Valley community. With the pigs, too.
Not that Zeke gave a fuck about that second group, despite having family who had worn pig skins in the past and some who still did.
Zeke suddenly had an urge to spit. He caught himself since Romeo probably wouldn’t appreciate a hocker decorating the floor, despite the man not being a fan of pigs himself.
“You hear any other chatter?” Romeo was sitting back, looking like nothing in the world could bother him at that moment.
But Zeke knew that could change in a flash.
“Only what was heard at the club,” Rage answered.
Romeo’s dark forehead buckled. “Which club?”
“Heaven’s Angels.”
